


Broken

by entanglednow



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-28
Updated: 2008-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 07:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks he must be broken to want this, broken where only Sylar can see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken

Mohinder thinks he must be broken. It's the only thing that makes sense, the only thing which explains why he allows this, why he encourages this, and he does. It's in everything he doesn't say, everything he doesn't do. It's in his stillness, which he's long since ceased to fool himself is either fear or cowardice. It's something terrifyingly close to surrender.

The sharp inhale when the bed shifts behind him is not fear, though he thinks it should be, thinks he should _want_ it to be. Instead it's something simpler, something easier and he hates himself for it. Hates himself more when the cold grasp of a hand round his waist makes all the breath fall out of him in one shaking exhale. It slides higher, skimming over every inch, all the way to the vulnerable curve of his throat.

"Look at me," Sylar's voice is ragged in his ear, and Mohinder pushes his head back on the pillow, rolls it sideways until he can see the rough edge of Sylar's jaw, the bare curve of a shoulder. Sylar folds over, kisses him, and he doesn't ask for permission there's just hard fingers on his face, pulling his head up until his neck aches.

Sylar kisses like he does everything else, hard and greedy and shaded with a certainty that _this_ is what he deserves, a demand that he will not have withheld or denied.

Mohinder thinks he must be broken to want this, broken in some fundamental way, broken where only Sylar can see. But then everything else is broken, so why shouldn't he be? Why isn't he allowed to be broken too?

There are pale fingers curled round his waist, drawing him against the air-cooled length of Sylar's chest and he shouldn't feel like he belongs in Mohinder's bed.

Sylar pushes his hair aside and kisses the back of his neck, and his mouth is soft, it always is at first, always a drag of lips and breath that sends an ache through his skin. But everything about him is unpredictable, and there will always be the threat of teeth, the threat that every catch will be harder than the last, will be sharper. And every time Mohinder will drag air like he wants it, like he needs it. And it's a filthy, broken betrayal of everything he ever stood for. But it's been a long time since fury turned to ashes, it's been a long time since he put up even token resistance.

Sylar pulls on his hip, fingertips digging in, and there's ragged want in every movement now. Mohinder not only lets it happen, he encourages it, invites it. Slides a thigh forward before Sylar has a chance to push it with the curve of his knee, hand reaching back for the weight of Sylar's waist and drawing him in with long fingers, and sharp nails.

He knows his encouragement makes Sylar less careful. Makes the hands on his skin tight and impatient, clutching at his thigh and then sliding higher. The press of fingers, sudden and far too intimate, sliding over and then inside, always breaks him all the way. Not just sliding then, but quick wet pushes, too much and not enough and Mohinder has no resistance against the way Sylar presses the side of his face against the curve of his jaw, and breathes words that make him swallow and push back.

He's not ready for the fingers to slide away, not ready for the hand that tilts his hip or the slow steady push that opens him all the way, leaves him groaning, leaves him a breath away from begging. But he lets Sylar in, all the way in, until that voice is curling under his skin, and the hand on his thigh is hard enough to bruise, hard enough that the muscle protests, until Sylar moves it and bruises somewhere new.

Mohinder knows the fact that he's doing this is obscene. 

But he can't stop. 

The murmur of his name in Sylar's soft, deep voice, is offered against his cheek with just the right amount of want, and a breath of something deeper, something complicated.

A push that's just a fraction rougher makes him groan in his throat.

Sylar has large hands, large enough to catch a great weight of his hair when he closes it, to keep it, and Mohinder doesn't protest. He just lets Sylar use it to drag his head all the way back, stretching him out until he shifts against Sylar's skin, and the noise of encouragement turns into something harder, something approving and greedy.

When Sylar digs his fingers in and pushes deep Mohinder can't breathe, it all catches in his throat and breaks. While every quick, heavy breath against the side of his throat makes it harder to hold on to any sort of protest. Until he's breathing words he doesn't mean to say, words that make Sylar press hard against his back and dig his fingers in impossibly tighter. And every push is now an ache that Mohinder accepts with a gasp and the slide of fingers on the sheets.

He doesn't want to, he never wants to -

Sylar is heavy and he doesn't move away afterwards but stays pressed into Mohinder's back, fingers dragging a pattern over his skin. Parts of new York are still too hot to touch and he's...falling into madness of his own making.

"This is all your fault," Mohinder says quietly. "And you don't even care." Sylar pulls a hand through the weight of Mohinder's hair and says nothing at all.


End file.
